The Greater Boone
by VHunter07
Summary: Vengeance is Mine saith the Lord; yet is not a close justice the greater Boon?" A collaboration with the amazing and splendorific Bowen Cates! Please R&R!
1. Prologue

_*peeks out* Uh....'ello all! Long time no see, eh?? I've really missed you guys too! For everyone who was aware of the whole job thing, I just want to say thank y'all SO VERY MUCH for all your prayers and encouragement. You're all so amazing, and I don't know what I'd have done without you! And now I'll move on with this little tale of ours as I plan on ranting more thanksfulness in my next little story which I hope to have up soon. This weekend if all goes as planned. :)_

_Anyway, welcome to our very first Holmes collaboration!! This is just a little taster of the story to come...consider it a preview! :) On behalf of myself and my dear co-author I hope you enjoy! Please R&R!_

_- VHunter_

****

* * *

**The Greater Boone**

Written by Violet Hunter and Bowen Cates

_All Canon characters are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

_All original characters are the property of both Violet Hunter and Bowen Cates._

**_

* * *

_**

**_

* * *

_**

__

_Concealed below a foggy veil_

_I've thought back through the years_

_I'd hoped to write a better tale_

_of fewer fruitless tears_

- Bowen Cates

**_Prologue_**

**Willamina:**

My mother has always insisted that I was a good girl. That before Father was discovered I washed my face without being asked and was always kind to my brother even when his offenses ranked far above my own. I do not remember much about my early childhood and so I can only hope that her words were the truth. And not clouded by parental affection or the strain of her condition.

Before she died she would often take me into her arms and rock me back and forth slowly. Her coughing interrupting the gentle rhythm every now and then with the reminder of a jolt or cringe within her ribcage. I remember likening it as to my younger sibling who would sometimes pinch me when he was not receiving the attention he desired. And then feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself for making such a connection.

Yet I could not bring myself to feel anger towards such an innocent thing as an illness. It meant no harm, nothing motivated it to such cruel means of survival that was not necessity or ignorance. No, the fault of the matter lay not with the consumption but with my father.

My mother would continue to rock me as she coughed, the disease now no longer of any danger to me, having outlived it's own ability to spread. She would stroke my hair away from my forehead and sing softly into the night. Or, if she did not have the energy to create music, she would tell me stories of the old days, with stuttering, pain-filled breaths.

Her wish to comfort me was a hollowing expectation. It ate away my insides with it's well meaning and sorrowful inspiration. However, I did not feel the loss of my own lungs until later at the funeral, when suddenly the air seemed as thick and suffocating as molasses. At the time I was conscious only of the rattling in hers.

However, not once in all our strangled moments, in which we were made claustrophobic by the racing hours that closed in upon us, did my mother, Ingrid Abigail St. Clair, mention that my father, the heroic figure of our early lives, had brought about our ruin, and that he had left us in the middle of a silent November night, never to return.


	2. Chapter 1

_Hello Fellow Holmesians Of The Deerstalker!_

_It's amazing, I'm helping write a STORY!!! I know I've been doing way too much poetry lately, It's not my fault I swear! I just like the rhymes._

_But for those of you who enjoyed 'The Story Of The Fourth Irregular' and 'A Tale Of Entwinement' here is the first chapter of another of those tales of tragic children, only it takes place in the original Cannon. _

_Well, actually I can't really say that as it draws very heavily upon the Granada episode of 'The Man With The Twisted Lip' But anyway, as has been done in the past by other authors on this site (Yes, KCS and PGF, I'm talking to you, and let's not forget Chewing Gum.) Violet and I wanted to weave some quotes and poetry into the fiber of our story. _

_However, instead of looking them up, we decided to write our own. So far there's been quite a few of mine, as you've probably noticed, but I wanted to assure you all that as soon as life slows down a bit and Violet gets her internet connection to coincide with her free time, you shall be seeing lots of hers as well. _

_I know, I know it's hard to wait, but until then, as painful as it is for me to say, you'll have to make due with my second-rate scribbles._

_Violet and I both came up with the plot for this story, and we have both participated in the creation of our chosen victim, the dear Willamina St. Clair. She is a child of both our hearts, and we sincerely hope that you enjoy her story._

_Warmest Wishes,_

_Bowen Cates_

_P.S. Also, I am overjoyed to say that the wonderful, fabulous, spell-checking extraordinaire Kadal has agreed to assist with the grammar editing involved in the writing of this tale. She's been with us from the first posting and will continue to be until the last._

_She's one amazing Beta Reader and I would like to recommend her to any and all fellows in the world of Fan Fiction._

* * *

_E.R.: "Even complete morons have pride."_

_B.C.: "Ya, it's what makes them complete morons."_

_A conversation between Bowen Cates and a relative._

**Chapter One**

**Willamina:**

Although I cannot claim many memories of my infancy as my own, there are a few things that I'm able to recollect clearly and with conviction. One such memory I can say without a doubt, will stay with me forever. Mainly because it was so mysterious and exciting until recently, and so was always present in my most introspective thought.

In this memory I'm standing in a doorway with a stuffed toy of questionable identity secured tightly in the bend of my elbow. I am facing forward and my lips are set in an uncertain smile. My eyes are fixed upon one of the two occupants of our guest room, a place I also remember well from many a game and story filled afternoon spent with my brother when we would play hide and go seek.

It is no wonder that my attention should have lingered upon this figure as opposed to the other, for he is without a doubt the most singular creature I have ever beheld. He was tall, casting my mind back I'm am sure that he must've been at least six feet. Of course when you are a small child every adult is a tower in comparison to your own insignificant person. Yet I can remember being especially impressed by the small amount of space between the top of his head and the ceiling.

Assisting in the further emphasis of this undeniable accomplishment was his extreme thinness, for at first he looked to be of no greater dimension than a street lamp. A great, tall statue made to seem even taller by the scarcity of his bulk. Indeed a statue is exactly the way in which he could be described for his long nose and chiseled expression were akin to those of Julius Caesar whose marble countenance, in those days, adorned the top of my fathers' desk in eternal contemplative serenity. Perhaps Julius and this creature would've been interchangeable were it not for the strangers eyes. Grey, like slate or steel and far colder. One could tell that that would be the usual state of them but at this moment they were alive, alive and sparkling from beneath have closed lids as the universe unraveled itself within them.

Those eyes and a pair of long delicately fingered hands that were splattered and stained with every chemical scar imaginable, those hands that twitched and twisted on the arms of the chair in which their master was curled protectively, were the only signs of life within this great wonder of a human being.

As I have mentioned, there was another personage in the room, a middle seized well built gentlemen with a moustache and brown eyes that were warm and kind. But I cannot say that I noticed very much else about him. Although now that I come to think on it, it is curious that he was not blotted out completely when put next to someone as consuming as his companion.

He had his own energy, his own vibrancy that was somehow able to compete for the air around them and claim some of it as his own. But he did this with not a nudge or a word, but a glance and smile. I knew that these two men, who had managed to stay in the head of someone so young for such a long time, had to be of some extreme importance. I could tell that the tall one would bow to no one else and that his companion would not ask such a thing of any other individual.

My only fault at the time was that I did not realize just how correct I was about their significance. And how much I would come to regret that lack of insight in later years. I did not realize that their appearance signaled the end of my life as I knew it. That my security and happiness would topple apart. As surely as the building blocks I had seen earlier upon the table would when stacked too high upon themselves. A domino effect had been instigated, and even had I been aware that I was standing in way of it at the time, I would not have had the wit to avoid it.

And so, with this said, I move on to the reason for this narrative, You see , it is not the story of my life that I wish to communicate, but the story of my second life so far as it has gone. The tale of my downfall and partial resurrection.

There is no good or evil in this tale, no right or wrong. Or if there is, the lines are far too blurred for there to be any distinction between them. Yet despite all this it is a story that must be told, and I must be the one to tell it.

My mother was never the kind of woman to put blame upon the shoulders of anyone but herself. Like a cat, she would lick her own wounds as well as those of the people surrounding her. Never a complaint, never a misplaced word. I was not surprised when she became ill nor was I shocked at the sudden occurrence of it. Rapid and deadly, like a gunshot.

No doubt she felt it would have been inconvenient, not too mention rude, to have made a fuss over something so bothersome, when she could just as easily take care of it herself. Her death brought with it nothing of any use and I can remember sitting alone in our little wooden house that kept out neither rain nor sun, with my dark brown hair unwashed and unkempt, wondering what lay before me.

I had no one left to me and no material objects to my name other than the clothes I wore and the small amount of dinner that by some miracle, still resided in my stomach despite the hole I could feel burning through the bottom of it. I can remember reaching my fingers into the air in front of me and flexing them, then swiping them hard across my face. My dirty nails drawing a thin red cage across one of my cheeks.

I had not been able to feel anything but grief for so long and now it too had become used to itself, as comfortable in my skin as I was not. The stinging of my flesh did not last long enough for my taste. The distraction, once welcome, now having extinguished itself. Its contentment having only furthered my fury. No tears streaked the blood as I starred at my reflection in the darkness of our cracked and coal smudged window pane.

I was alone.

I had too much anger within me to seek out my father, a creature who had left his family, alone and afraid, to die and it's only survivor without the means even to purchase mourning clothes. I could not bring myself even in my desperation to seek help from someone so ingrained in blood. Although, at the same time I now no longer had any reason left in me to live, save but one.

All my life I had longed for the truth. all the hours of all the days as I had watched my humanity fall to shreds around me, I had longed to learn what had happened to us from unbiased lips. I decided, in that one lonely instant, that that would be my mission. My reason, in this otherwise meaningless existence. Now that I was free to live and die by my own choice, I would seek out the man in my memory.

I could not recollect a name. Even if I had known it once, it was gone now and, unable to read or write, I could not send out word to him or plead in a newspaper for someone to answer to my possibly erroneous description of him even had I the funds to entertain such a notion. I would have to look for him myself , wander from person to person in dejection.

It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

Surely someone so peculiar as him would have been noticed. Surely my mother had refused to give me his name because she thought it possible that I would recognize it. That was my hope as I walked out into the sweltering summer streets of London.

My pockets were empty, but my mind was full. I would find the statue, him and his companion. I would find them, and I would make them tell me the truth.


	3. Chapter 2

_HERE IT IS! VHunter07's wonderful, fabulous, prefectual chapter! I don't know if you've noticed, but VHunter and I are writing this story in a slightly different way then is usual with collaborations as far as I can tell. She's writing the Watson chapters, and I am writing Holmes and Willamina's._

_The original idea was that she would write poetry for my chapters, and I would write it for hers, that is the pattern we hope to instill as soon as possible._

_As a quick note, we've been asked quite a few times if Willamina is spelled correctly, it is, there are three spellings for the name, and we chose the one we are currently using because it seemed to sound the best, and represented the oddity of her character._

_Another note on Willamina is you've no doubt noticed her extremely versatile vocabulary. I actually know someone who had such a use of words at a much younger age than she, and although he did not speak in the same style, he certainly had the words to had he so chosen._

_The explanation for her having this ability, despite not being able to read or write, will present it's self as the story progresses._

_As a final note, thank you to everyone who has read this story so far, and an even greater thank you to those of you who have left us reviews._

_Yours,_

_Bowen Cates_

* * *

_Icy dreams of silent rage  
Have slept within the monster's cage  
They slumber now, but soon they'll wake  
And when they do, the earth will quake._

_- Bowen Cates_

**Chapter Two**

**Watson:**

"It's absurd, Watson! Entirely absurd!" Cried Sherlock Holmes as he paced viciously before the mantle in our rooms at 221B Baker Street. I looked up from my notebook but made no reply, as it was obvious to me that none was desired. The case to eclipse all cases had been literally thrust upon us by the very British government itself and for the first time in our long acquaintance, my friend had declared himself unequal to the challenge. Now witnessing the present state into which he'd worked himself, I was beginning to agree. Yet I could find no fault with his distress in consideration of the facts before us.

My musings were suddenly interrupted by his snatching the book from my hands and rapidly flipping back several sheets before he located the required page.

"Lord Salisbury stated that his rooms were not checked until approximately forty-eight hours after he was last seen at Whitehall. Unless I am mistaken, his actual office hours fluctuate abominably, thus the extensive amount of time lost before his absence was noted." he stated quickly, more to himself than to me.

I rose from my chair and extinguished the lamp as the first streaks of morning light had begun to appear. We had been at this since yesterday's luncheon hour. Holmes had neither eaten nor slept since the day before when this matter was first brought to his attention by the Prime Minister himself. I could see that he was, in fact, quite weary, but would consider nothing but the matter at hand, as was his wont. Turning back, I gently reclaimed the book from my friends' pale fingers. "We've been over the facts at least a dozen times, Holmes. His rooms were checked at eight o'clock in the morning, Wednesday the fourth. The landlady and neighbouring tenants were unsuccessfully questioned, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in the past few days; his habits were regular, his manner typically casual."

Holmes threw himself into his armchair with an ejaculation of pure, unadulterated disgust. "It's all wrong, Watson. I can feel it. Something…there is something missing. Some stone left unturned, some fact ungathered…something has not yet come out."

"Did nothing come of your inspection of his rooms? Nothing at all?"

He gave flaccid shrug, reaching a long, thin arm to the mantle for his black, clay pipe. "Nothing of any great use. Nothing definite. No signs of a struggle, though I expected none. He's not the sort to offer a great deal of resistance, even in such unpleasant circumstances," he said with a ghost of a smile.

"What of that scrap of paper you found?"

Holmes reached quickly into his dressing gown to procure the object of interest. He passed the little folded paper to me to read aloud. "'Vengeance is Mine saith the Lord; yet is not a close justice the greater Boon…?'"

Holmes gave me an encouraging nod, so I read over the message once more. "It would seem to mark some sort of desperation for revenge."

"Quite. What else?"

I held the note towards the light. "No watermark…seems to be an average sort of paper…a mans' writing?"

"Yes, go on."

I read it once more to myself. "I can see nothing else unless there's some clue in the fact that the author possesses a nominal knowledge of the Bible…the first half is nearly a direct quote, is it not?"

"A fairly loose reproduction of Romans, chapter twelve, verse nineteen. But his own conclusion was added as you observe. Did you not take note of the capitalisation of the final word, Watson?" Holmes took the paper from me and moved to gaze out of our open window into the street.

"Yes, the word 'Boon' was capitalised, but what does that signify?"

"That it is a name, naturally," he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"But the word 'Boon' used as a name is spelt with an-"

"That would've been far too obvious. No, this message was intended for one who might see beyond the instant conclusion of simply a poor education. This message was meant for us, Watson, and us alone, rest assured. The only puzzle remaining is just precisely who this 'Boone' fellow is. As the message conveys a need for rectification regarding some past grievance, he must be someone known to us. But who? In my many years of practice there have been countless individuals either bearing or claiming to bear the title of Boone!"

A thought occurred to me as I joined him at the window. "But surely you might narrow it down to those whom you've opposed since revenge is indicated."

"Yes…still that leaves us with infinite possibilities…there was Simon Boone the poisoner of Melhurst, Thaddeus Grant Boone of Riddleton House."

"That Mr Wesley Boone involved in the Stable Murders," I offered.

Holmes nodded slowly and resumed his pacing as he continued. "Mr and Mrs J. Boone, the perpetrators of the Wessex Bank thefts…Madame Caroline Boone, you should remember her well, Watson…Cyrus T. Boone of odious memory…Thompson and Boone Solicitors…Sir Nathaniel Boone- it's no use, Watson! The list is innumerable!" he finally snarled, dashing his pipe to the floor and scattering tobacco ash over the carpet as he flung himself back into his chair with such a force that it very nearly tipped over.

"There must be something, Holmes, something more specific."

"I tell you there is not…I…am not fit for this case, Watson, I am not." He said this with a longing glance toward the drawer in which the silk-lined Morocco case was locked. I made no mention of it, knowing well that the desire would go unheeded in the midst of such a dismal state of affairs.

I placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "You must give yourself some time, Holmes. Anyone would be shaken by such developments."

"I am not anyone…and neither is Mycroft," he said quietly.

"But where the devil could he be, Holmes? Mycroft doesn't seem the type to get himself into difficultly…as least no more than he can handle."

This elicited a faint smile from my friend. "No…he is indeed a force to be reckoned with…but I fear this time the blame of the matter falls entirely upon my own head."

"Holmes, you-"

"Just one lead, Watson! If only I had one solid fact!"

My intended reply was forgotten due to the quick steps of our landlady, made audible upon the stairs. She gave a formal tap on the door before entering. "What is wrong, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked quickly in answer to the look of distress upon her features.

"There's a child, Doctor, here to see Mr Holmes."

"One of the Irregulars?" Holmes demanded.

"I wouldn't know, sir… but it's about something dreadfully important, she says."

He waved her off. "Send her away, Mrs. Hudson, I've no time for trifles just now."

"She was quite insistent-"

"I'll not see her."

"Very well." Our estimable landlady departed with a pointed look of irritation at my oblivious friend. However, no sooner had the door clicked shut that it was swung back into the wall with such a force that I instinctively moved for the desk in which my revolver was kept. Fortunately, it was only the 'insistent' girl, though she was only slightly that; she looked nearer to a young lady than a child. Only her ragged dress, shabby coat and lack of head attire gave her a much younger appearance. Her thin face was streaked with what looked to be a great deal of soot, and her large blue eyes flashed fire as she marched forward and presented herself to my friend with all the determination of a well seasoned soldier at the head of battle.

"Are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?" she inquired at once.

Holmes rose from his seat and swept past our young visitor without a word. He placed the note found in his brother's rooms beneath his high-powered lens, taking no notice of her at all. To my surprise, the child followed him. Standing just aside his work bench, she stared hard at him as if to ascertain the truth by the sheer force of her gaze alone.

"I remember you," she said after several moments. "Shortly before the days became so interminably long, both you…and him in our guest room," she said, with a brief glance in my direction, "You were the cause of it all, albeit indirectly. Although, I suppose that depends upon how the matter is to be perceived. All I require is an explanation, then I shall go, and return to the den from whence I first emerged; you have my word upon the matter."

Whether it was the gentle sorrow hidden within her young voice or merely exasperation at her tenacity that caused my friend to finally acknowledge her presence I could not truthfully say. "Yes, I am Sherlock Holmes…at your disposal. What is it you wish to know?"

Her relief at his unexpected compliance was plainly visible in the brief smile that flashed over her face momentarily before the solemnity of her inquiry took hold once more. "My request is as stated; directly following the appearance of you and the Doctor in my life, my father disappeared, never to be heard from again. I only wish to know the reason. My mother would never tell me, but as her opinion is hardly of importance any more, I can only hope that you will be so kind as to oblige me."

Holmes ushered the girl to the settee and took his place across from her. "In order to satisfactorily answer your questions I shall require your name as well as the names of your parents."

"My name is Willamina…Willamina St. Clair. You should remember my father, Mr Holmes, he was Nev-"

"Watson, I am a fool! An unforgivable fool!"

The poor child nearly leapt from her seat at my friend's sudden and rather vociferous exclamation. He bounded across the room and snatched the scrap of paper from the microscope, waving it wildly in the air with such a light in his eyes that I thought him subject to a fit of some sort.

"Boone, Watson! Boone! We have our lead at last!"


	4. Chapter 3

_The wisping tendrils reach and grasp,  
Twisting in seeming throes of finality.  
Now releasing their desperate gasp,  
The clouds of heaven plunder their mortality.  
They envelop and consume with ev'ry last breath,  
Begging only living company in this a jealous death._

_- Violet Hunter_

**Chapter Three**

**Holmes:**

I stood in consternation, my mind buzzing, the problem in its enormity at last becoming clear to me. In hindsight, I realize that I should have had some pity for the child, or some similar emotion. I still cannot say which; one chooses emotions as one does clothes, depending upon the weather, and Watson still insists that I am somewhat lacking even in that rudimentary function.

This sudden appearance of the child of Neville St. Clair, also known as Hugh Boone, had given me it's own explanation as to why the blackguard would wish to launch a personal attack against me. It also explained the reason I had not recognized his handwriting when the note had first been discovered.

I had discounted him, albeit unknowingly, as I have been known to do on occasion, for the simple reason that the note was hand-written, but I had seen St Clair's writing before, my mind reasoned, and so would have recognized it instantly. To my shame, I had forgotten that the scoundrel had made use of two handwritten styles during the course of his life, the one I had seen first, by the admission of his wife, was used by her husband only in moments of urgency.

This clue he had left behind, in its premeditated state, would have made use of the more elegant of the two. Still, I should have noted the similarities; I would have to be more careful from now on, if this level of carelessness was what I was being reduced to. I had some inkling that if I were ever able to rescue my brother from a probably gruesome and gilt-ridden fate, I would leave that particular detail out of the telling.

I glanced over my shoulder at Watson, who was still sitting on the settee, his jaw slightly agape, his eyes both surprised and remorseful. I understood his current dilemma of conscience, but, truthfully, we had had no direct hand in what had progressed after our departure from the house, and matters far more pressing and important were in need of attention.

I was myself pacing the length of the carpet rather rapidly at this time, but stopped, and made to open my mouth in order to explain my point of view to him, annoyed that I should have to at all, when I suddenly became conscious of the problem this young lady presented despite the obvious advantages.

My target had now been named. Tracking him down would require speed and independence, with the usual but _only_ exception being that of my biographer. After all, he could be somewhat useful when he wasn't spouting romantic fiction in every direction.

In a better, more convenient world, I should simply have been able to send our guest on her way, but as it was, this was impossible for two reasons.

The first was that, as a hungry man wandering in the desert looks out into the barren sand and sees an oasis of palm trees, so then did I look upon the child standing across from me and see my only bargaining chip. Of course, should she indeed prove to be useful in that way, it would be ungentlemanly to hand her over to the scoundrel, therefore it was something I would never do, but the chances of Boone being aware of that particular quirk in my nature were rather slim.

The second reason was that my friend and college had now snapped out of his open jawed remorse and was guiding the child with all the insistence of our good landlady into his armchair, which he cleared quickly of its various papers and photographs, shoving them under the coffee table in disarray. Honestly, he did like to make a mess.

It was sizzling outside, unbearable in the constancy of heat and moisture, and so I was not a little interested to see that the girl was shivering. Indeed, there were quite a few things to be noticed about her appearance, now my attention came to linger upon her.

She had obviously come from the darker end of London; soot coated her face, and yet curiously did not succeed in hiding four long red scratches on her right cheek from view. They stood out angrily against her blackened skin and had obviously been inflicted quite recently. The small amount of blood beneath her fingers, mixed with still more foul smelling decay, told of the source.

Her story played itself out very clearly before me, as Watson, our only audience, watched in silent understanding of my methods. Her mother was obviously dead, as she had hinted, and therefore I could only surmise that her only brother had preceded the women to the grave. For, obviously, she would not have left her family behind, nor be in quite such a neglected condition, were her mother still alive. A woman of breeding and character - at least when I had known her - Mrs. St Clair would have insisted upon some amount of cleanliness from her children, regardless of the circumstances.

She had not done much today save for coming here, although she had first gone to Scotland Yard - that was obvious from the tint of the soil encrusted upon the heels of a pair of very worn brown leather shoes - where she had no doubt obtained my name and address. She was not employed at the work-house; her fingers did not bear the calluses, which on someone so young can only mean one thing. Therefore, the deaths in her family had been recent, only just over a week, and the chances of her remaining out of that institution were not realistic.

I continued drawing my conclusions. The exercise was pointless now, but served to bring some relief to my mind. I am not an emotional man, yet I will not deny that the abduction of my only brother had served to make me uneasy, one might even go so far as to say…_agitated_.

I realized suddenly that the child had been following my gaze as well, watching my eyes, despite the rapidity of their movement. I again opened my mouth to speak, though I had no idea what I was planning to say, when Watson broke in upon my thoughts. "Holmes, I think the young lady should have some tea." He eyed me expectantly in that frustratingly appealing way that never fails to create an uncomfortable emotional response within me despite my struggles.

Before Watson had stumbled in upon my solitude, I would have forgone all meals and given them not a thought until I had reached a solution to the problem, but as it was I seemed to have acquired this illogical tugging within me; a wish to please my friend in small ways. This motivation was foreign to me still and worried me with its illogic. A sensible man would put his foot down immediately and return to his previously pristine process of intellectual seclusion, and I would, I assured myself, as soon as the tea had been taken care of.

"You've far more muscle than I remember."

Watson, who, at my nod, was thudding down the staircase to the kitchen in order to have a word with Mrs. Hudson, did not hear this sudden pronouncement.

"I beg your pardon?" I replied, absently, going back to my former activity of appearing to examine the message beneath my microscope, despite the fruitlessness of the effort.

She did not respond immediately, her blue eyes searched me, slightly uncertain. I had noticed that, due to lack of washing, her dark, probably brown, curls drooped a bit, giving her a slightly puppy-eyed appearance. I found this similarity to my friend when in his more pleading attitudes rather unsettling.

"I remembered your height and your thinness," she went on, in response to my prompt. "You seemed to me to be quite easily mistakable for a mop or a street lamp, but perhaps you were not so sturdy back then as you are now?"

Despite the situation, I felt my cheeks burn red. I turned away quickly as she continued despite my obvious coldness towards her.

"But you needn't worry now. You're actually quite well proportioned, for someone so…"

I found myself stuck dumb at the insolence shooting from that mouth; to surprise me is a feat not easily accomplished, but this vagabond had succeeded. This, of course, served to cause me no end of annoyance.

"So what?" I asked, causally, in all probability shooting daggers from my eyes.

"I would tell you," she smiled now, but her eyes remained cold as she pulled her ankles more closely together and clutched the shreds of her skirt in both hands, "But you have not yet answered my original question, and I do not wish to be thrown out until I have what I came for."

I was about to respond to this unheard of cheek, no one since Lestrade had had the gall to speak to me in such a way, and never a child, when suddenly (and I will admit, to my great relief) Watson reappeared in the room. I anticipated some assistance from him. I had faith that he would instill some control over the creature sitting in his armchair, but instead, upon catching my eye, he grinned mischievously.

"I do hope you two have been getting along. There shouldn't be too much difficulty, you both having so much in common." I was wrong. He had been aware of her comments, although why that fact should suggest itself to me from his jest is something that still confuses me.

The girl had the further insolence to actually snigger at me.

I found myself already beginning harbor a strong dislike for her.

Sensing danger, Watson quickly stepped in between us, smiling gently.

"Mrs. Hudson is to bring us some tea. Then you can eat and tell us your story. Once that is finished, and we have answered your questions," he looked up at me meaningfully, then returned his attention to the child, "We will explain matters to you as they are. You must forgive Mr. Holmes for his outburst; he is rather worried over a pressing family matter which we will discuss presently." It was my turn to glare, and I did, vehemently. The doctor pretended not to notice, a habit which I find thoroughly annoying.

However, instead of retaliating further, I made use of this opportunity to find and relight my pipe. I puffed on it for a moment, Watson scowling at me all the while in his 'Holmes, not in the vicinity of children!' expression, while I took my turn at feigning ignorance.

I would have preferred to have said something that would have had the effect of leveling the playing field, or perhaps tipping it in my direction, had it not been that something else had engaged my attention. There was something about this child. She was not the kind of person to sit back and allow others to dictate her actions, such as she had when Watson had moved her to the chair. She would not stand docilely by; that much was clear from her initiative in finding me.

I had the distinct impression that she was humouring the doctor, letting him show kindness because it seemed to be what made him comfortable. She was not stupid. That, sadly, was beyond debate. Her rudeness had been drawn from a plan of attack, a course of action. She was baiting me, attempting to frustrate me so that I would wish to be rid of her as soon as possible, so she could gather the information she required and disappear once more.

She knew that, with Watson here, anger would not induce me to be rid of her without some courtesy, that I would be more inclined to hurry the interview then to cut it off.

I found her keen evaluation of my personality after having only actually met me a few moments ago somewhat impressive.

This hint of a deeper mind would have lead me to a darker conclusion had I not known she could not be an emissary of her father, not when she presented such a tempting advantage, and she was his daughter; for as much as I hated to admit it, I did recognize her.

The curls were dark now, but they were the same ones that had surrounded her head in a blonde wreathe as a toddler. Her eyes were the same, and there was something about the way she watched the doctor in silent contemplation that was unmistakable.

However, none of that mattered. The one time that she had seen us in her house together had been when she had stood in that doorway all those years ago, and at that time she had been the only one besides us that had been present. Therefore, if the details matched my recollection of that night as well as Watson's, then there could be no doubt, and once there was no doubt, then we could begin.


End file.
